This is the prologue to a possible novel i'm planning, so any comments/ideas would be appreciated.
Summer seems out of place in the city. There’s a bizarre
corruption in the July humidity, the gigantic grey shadows of the tower blocks
are penetrating the sunbeams and stealing the innocence that the light brings;
replacing the freedom with the defeating reminder of reality. It’s this exactly
that instils such joy in me about returning to the country. London can be
placed on pause for a while. The eager bustle of the urban life, the
underground serpent, the caffeine-driven energy of it all; everything can be
pushed aside for the summer. Replaced by the subtleness, the contented ease of
the West-country. Even the smell of the salt-tainted air and the incessant
cries of the gulls instantly lulls me into a sense of calm. At long last the
sleepy security of Dorset has reclaimed it’s estranged child, albeit for far
too short a time.
“Cup of
tea.” Mum chimed, scuttling around the Aga. Nothing had changed, nothing does
here; as if everything is caught in a comfortable time lock.
“Where’s
Dad?” I asked, a bite of my digestive dissolving into a cascade of crumbs.
“He’s
picking up Jack. And a crate of wine probably.” The used tea-bags seemed almost
despondent in the china bowl. My family was relatively ordinary I suppose. As
ordinary as a slightly-self-sufficient-ex-hippie couple with two
bowler-hat-wearing offspring can be. Firstly, there’s mum. Lynn. A sentimental,
spherical woman. Who’s existence was driven by cheesecakes and T. S. Elliot.
She was eternally available for a leisurely chat or a rant about the ‘1984-esc
society’ of the 21st century. Then of course there’s Dad. Phil. A
lecturer who’s retirement has been spent filing receipts and losing at chess.
My parents were two opposites. Opposites who seemed to fit together, tight and
secure in their different worlds. Then, leaving out the chickens and Ebony the
Labrador, there’s Jack. My sister. A, how can I describe her? This
bizarre-foreign creature who, in a household of sensibility and initiatives
exists in French films and a near-dyspraxic clumsiness. She has been and always
will be, about the most beautiful human in the world to me. And finally,
there’s me. Elcy. Too short. Too plump. Too, well… ‘me’. The youngest of the
Hampton clan. My existence is predominantly controlled by Supertramp vinyls and
ukuleles. After leaving at eighteen for a gap year in which I pottered around
parts of Mexico and blogged about the poverty of LED countries, university life
engulfed me. The craze of London and the instant reality check of how little I
can afford whilst still contemplating paying back my student loan hit me. My
life in London is the usual pointless day-to-day mull, with far too much time
spent hidden in a bowl of supernoodles whilst puzzling over Morse. A usual
family, a usual life and a usual girl.
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